


The Feline’s Faulty Philosophy

by CorvusCanidae



Series: SITM [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: (sort of?), Blood Loss, Body Horror, Fantasy, Harm to Children, Honestly y’all this probably the lightest chapter it all goes downhill from here, Hypothermia, Necromancy, Not Beta Read, Prequel, SITM, Series of interconnected oneshots, Waddup gaymers get ready for a Not So Swell Time, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 21:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20264761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorvusCanidae/pseuds/CorvusCanidae
Summary: The first time that Tamil Alban died, he was six years old, and it was snowing.





	The Feline’s Faulty Philosophy

_The first time that Tamil Alban died, he was six years old, and it was snowing_.

The weather wasn’t anything too remarkable, albeit maybe a bit chillier than he had come to expect. Though, now that he thought about it, that probably wasn’t a result of any oddities in the climate itself (_after all, the snowstorms this time of year were relatively tame_) so much as it was probably a result of the blood loss.

The steady patter of bright red bouncing merrily along behind him drew a sharp line marking his stumbled path through the snow that blanketed the horizon, deep enough that his <strike>increasingly heavy</strike> feet sunk with each step. Snowflakes came down in flurries, fluttering gently in the wind and tracing mesmerizing patterns and shapes his eyes couldn’t quite follow. _Actually, it was getting harder and harder for his eyes to focus on anything— _

Another sudden gust of wind pushed him (<strike>yet again, the shrinking part of him still mostly able to think in full sentences whispers)</strike> from his—admittedly drunken, off-kilter—marching, and for a moment as he reflexively flailed about he felt nothing but vague bafflement as to why everything is spinning and so, so blurry, mind still on autopilot. And then, with a lurch, the moment of blissful confusion is over as his foot meets the ground very forcefully, and the waves of pain the jarring motion sends through his body clear away most of the fog clouding his mind and he remembers that_ oh yeah, he might be** dying**_.

He should probably be more concerned about that, but any stirrings of the panic that drove him this far are overshadowed by growing numbness. He finds himself simply staring at the four massive gashes that run across his chest, from his left shoulder all the way to his right hip, deep enough that he can see the wet glint of what he can only assume are his bones, with an owlish expression, as though faced with some exotic creature on display at a fair—

~~~

_There weren’t many fairs in his village, isolated as it was tucked into the shadow of the Jaggedback Mountains, but a few weeks prior a traveling caravan had rolled in with a small bestiary’s worth of dragonoids. He’d even seen a real live Concinnant! They stayed for five days before moving on (disappearing overnight just as abruptly as they’d arrived) and it had been one of the most exciting experiences of his young life. <strike>[Only years later would he realize the arrival had been completely on accident, or the deep-seated sadness reflected in the bloodshot eyes those beautiful creatures he had gawked at between the gilded bars]. He did not yet grasp the concept of smuggling, did not understand the cruelties of the world.</strike> Back then all he had understood was that _new faces_ were _here_, in _his_ village, in _Kösril_, the village so isolated within the snowy recesses of Föhrtrenn’s borders that it was given a name literally translating to ‘lost’. He asked no questions, because there were nothing he thought to ask. They were here, and he got to see true dragons for once instead of being stuck with nothing but the wandering packs of Föhrtrii Lyndworms that scavenged the tundras, and for him that was enough. Only years later, looking back on that chain of events, would he see all the ways he had been a fool, the ways that causes and effects had unfurled to force him down the paths he had taken. Only then would he allow himself to realize that the silk-laiden caravans had not been touring—they had been running. One day he would be old enough and mature enough to curse those damned caravans for bringing Death to Kösril. But today was not that day. Today, he was still a child. Today, he was lost, and he was bleeding, and he was completely and utterly alone. _

~~~

Tamil opened his eyes. Or at least, he tried to. One must have been <strike>gone, torn out like the innards of his family</strike> swollen shut, because nothing happened, and the other didn’t register anything but blinding white that sent daggers through his foggy brain after every blink<strike>_ (or was it wink, now?)_</strike>. He shivered. Abruptly, <strike>but far too distantly for his own liking</strike>, he realized that he was lying down. He did not remember lying down. He didn’t remember a lot of things, actually. The information was _there_, probably, but his addled mind couldn’t seem to parse any meaning from it, or from anything in particular, for that matter. Everything had an almost otherworldly quality to it. He wondered if he was dreaming.

He felt his left eye fall shut again, and tried again to pry it open. He wasn’t sure how long it had been, but blearily he could tell that the snow had started to cover him up. _That was a bad thing, right? For a moment he could almost recall something, someone’s voice, a warning, training, and something fluttering and decidedly _desperate_ stirred in his chest, before the haze overtook it as it overtook everything in his mind, and he shrugged it off <strike>(as much as he could; it was getting harder and harder to move)</strike>. _

… He was tired.

<strike>He needed to stay awake </strike>

He should go to sleep.

The snow was soft, and he was so tired, and it’s not like he was going anywhere, anyway. _Why was he here, again? _He wasn’t sure anymore.

_<strike>Screaming and crashing and blood, so much blood, great beasts bigger than the houses they destroyed, so many lifeless eyes, oh gods the **screams-**</strike> _

It’s probably nothing.

He took one last glance before his eye slid shut again.

‘_That’s odd,’_ he thought sleepily, as his body finally stilled.

_‘The snow is red’. _

**Author's Note:**

> Snow stretched out in a clean, unblemished line as far as the eye could see.
> 
> They kept walking, not towards a known destination so much as just forwards, towards the fading pull of a new vessel. A new vassal. They had been wandering for a while now, but she wasn’t worried. The Cat had led them this far. It could lead them a bit farther. A shuffling sound behind her made her glance over her shoulder. Her knights were getting restless. Lady Kolibri, unsurprisingly, was standing at attention, the perfect image of proffesionalism. She would have been perfectly content to have come with only her as escort, but alas...
> 
> A muffled chuff and the crunch of boots being stomped repeatedly in rapid succession drew her attention to her other companion.
> 
> Sir Lyall was fidgeting relentlessly. She heaved a sigh—he was loyal, of course, and indispensable when it came to strength, but sometimes (like now) she found herself wishing The Wolf had chosen a more… mature vessel. Oh well. No use stressing over it now, she supposed. Hopefully whoever The Cat was leading them to would be a bit more civilized.
> 
> She turned her gaze forwards once more, landscape still the same void of seemingly infinite, unblemished white. Wait a second….
> 
> …almost unblemished.
> 
> The Cat had finally found its target. She could feel it’s self-satisfied purring in the back of her mind, but ignored it in favor of motioning for her knights to stay back. She took a few steps forward and looked down at the shape barely visible through the darkening crimson snow that was slowly but surely burying it.
> 
> It was definitely dead. Probably had been for hours, if not longer.
> 
> That won’t do.
> 
> The Cat’s purring grew louder in her mind, almost deafening, its rumbling converging with the hum of magic, as she opened her arms and looked down to the boy at her feet. The four of them were cast in a faint glow as the little girl drew in a breath and imposed her will.
> 
> There would be leftover scarring, of course, damages she could not yet repair, but this body was to be her next Knight, and she was not fond of playing with broken toys.
> 
> The Cat approached its new vessel, staring into closed eyes with clear anticipation, before turning its ghostly head to look up at her in silent question. She nodded to it, gently, no more than a slight tilt of the head, but it was enough.
> 
> The Cat disappeared with a flick of its tail, and for a moment time stood still, snowflakes hanging static in the darkened sky.
> 
> And then there was an audible intake of breath.
> 
> And Tamil Alban opened his eyes.


End file.
